


A Wizard And An Occultist Walk Into A Bar

by LittleMissCosmic



Series: We're Not Normal People [1]
Category: Constantine (TV), DC's Legends of Tomorrow (TV), Doctor Strange (2016), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Canon Divergence, Drunkenness, First Meetings, Humor, Not Infinity War/Endgame Compliant, Post Season 5, Vomiting, brief angst
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-31
Updated: 2021-01-31
Packaged: 2021-03-17 13:27:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,813
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29101002
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LittleMissCosmic/pseuds/LittleMissCosmic
Summary: During yet another night of wallowing in whiskey and self-hatred, John ends up meeting a fellow dabbler in the mystic arts.
Relationships: John Constantine & Stephen Strange
Series: We're Not Normal People [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2135205
Comments: 7
Kudos: 24





	A Wizard And An Occultist Walk Into A Bar

**Author's Note:**

> I've always wanted to write something like this haha, hope you enjoy!

"Another round." 

It was yet another long night at the bar for John Constantine, though instead of choosing a rich and brimming tavern in beautiful London, he settled on the cramped depths of New York. Granted, it wasn't a terrible second choice. In fact, it was pretty fitting to try and blend in among the strangers. 

Tonight he wasn't inviting company. All he wanted was another glass of liquor. 

Getting blackout drunk wasn't a new thing to him -- imagine that -- but he only drank this badly during his worst nights. If he drank like this at home or on the Waverider, everybody would've been up his arse, asking him what was wrong or how they could help. And he wasn't exactly up for any "heart-to-heart" therapy sessions right now. 

The barkeeper slid him yet another glass with a concerned side-eye. John tipped the glass at him, then proceeded to down it in under 10 seconds. He discarded his glass next to his growing army, but before he could demand another, a brisk hand settled on his arm. 

"You know, liver damage is a real concern nowadays," someone whispered. "So is lung cancer." 

Annoyed, John turned and looked his interrupter up and down, noting the outright bizarre blue robes he was draped in. Sneering at his comment, he whipped out a cigarette. 

"If you buy me my next pint, I'll make it my last one," he snarked, lighting it up. 

"I'd peg you at about 10 years until death," the man took the seat right next to him, waving at the smoke tainting the air. "Maybe 11 if you quit smoking now-- like, _now_ now --but I wouldn't bet on it." 

"Perceptive," Rolling his eyes, John downed another glass. At this point his vision began to swim, but he could still steer himself to face the robed man with contempt. "If you wanted to whine about people having drinks, why'd you come to a bar?" 

"I'm not whining about drinks, I'm concerned about you in particular," he pointed a finger to his chest. "I've been sitting at that table for about 20 minutes and you've consumed about 30 drinks in half that time. Do you even have the money for that, let alone the potential hospital bill?" 

"Oh, piss off, why don't ya?" He waved his finger off. "I don't need some...crackpot doctor telling me how to spend my night off. Now why don't you go back to your fraternity or whatever you're dressed up for--" 

"First of all, I'm _not_ a crackpot," his voice seemed to waver (struck a nerve, perhaps?) "I have my M.D. _and_ my PhD. Second of all, I'm a Master of the Mystic Arts. Not a frat boy." 

John swiveled himself, almost falling off his barstool in the process, and absolutely chortled in his face. 

" _Master_ of the _Mystic Arts_?" he gripped the table, the mixture of drunkenness and laughter making it hard for him to keep his balance. Drawing attention was the last of his concerns. "The things people come up with nowadays!" 

Instinctively, his hand reached for a glass, but after a few seconds of confusion he realized he was swiping at air. When he turned his head, the only thing on the table was empty space. 

"What th-" he looked back around to see the man, not even a smidge of amusement on his face, levitating every single glass in the air. Every single one! Each surrounded by a mystic glow. Guess he didn't care about earning a crowd either. 

The man turned back around, eyes widening in mock-surprise as if he had just noticed John was sitting there. "Do you believe me now?" 

He directed the glasses back on the shelves behind the barkeeper, who was practically frozen from the absurdity he had witnessed tonight. The man flashed a brief smirk, a hint of hubris shining through. 

Okay, okay. He had proved him wrong. Whoop De-doo. Still not fully impressed, John sifted through the inner pockets of his trenchcoat and fished out a business card. 

"Well, here you go." 

The man nicked the card and glanced at it. A chuckle escaped his lips. "Constantine, huh?" 

John raised his eyebrow. "A name you recognize, love?" 

His fingers shot up and the card dematerialized before his eyes. "More like a warning sign." 

The barkeeper reluctantly handed him another glass. John tipped the cup at the apparent wizard, not acknowledging how he nearly spilled half his drink in the process. "You'd be right." 

As the sweet, sweet whiskey rained down his throat, the supposed doctor leaned his elbow onto the bar and examined him. 

"You got a reason you're trying to destroy your internal organs tonight?" 

John steered himself forward. He would've fallen off his stool if the man's hand (or...cloak?) didn't help him stay upright. "If you knew the creatures I've faced, you'd drink to forget too." 

"Well, I might be able to give you a run for your money," he crossed his arms, an eyebrow quirked. "But right now I want to know where you're staying?" 

An intoxicated smirk found its way onto his face. His head, swimming more than before, tipped back. He launched his arm, landing it firmly on the man's shoulder. 

"Well...I'd say we could take this to a motel, but I'm not sure if you're quite my type." 

The man was taken aback, almost offended. "How _so_?" 

He shot a finger gun with his free hand. "Uptight." 

"Mmm," he hummed, unamused. He shifted his weight to navigate John's arm across his shoulder, as if he were carrying him. "I'll take that into consideration, but I wanted to know where I need to drag you down to." 

"What'd you mean?" John slurred, not even noticing the edges of his vision growing darker. 

"You look like you're about to pass out in 3...2..." 

Before the wizard could finish his sentence, a slimy trail of bile rushed up John's throat and he coughed violently. His vision darkened considerably, and his head was spinning more than ever. Realization had briefly settled in that he managed to vomit on the stranger, right before everything disappeared before his eyes.

And then he was out like a light. 

* * *

To be honest, public humiliation in the presence of strangers was somewhat more reassuring that being humiliated in front of his friends. He couldn't imagine what the rest of the Legends would've said if this happened on the Waverider. 

When he woke up the next morning, his head was filled with rocks, and the general feeling of malaise had not subsided one bit. Nor would it lessen in the coming hours, he assumed. The first thing he noticed through the cloudiness of his mind was that he was sleeping in an actual bed. Not passed out on a couch or left on the floor-- a bed. 

His trenchcoat had been disregarded, as well as his tie, leaving him lying with only his disheveled, stained button-up and concealing dark slacks. He lifted his head (only prolonging his migraine) and noticed there was just one bed in the room. However, there _was_ a lean man slumped in a felt chair right before his bed, wholly worn out. There was a dried stain on his blue robes, though that wasn't any fault of his own. 

The man shifted, eyes opening slightly before fully widening once he saw both of them were awake. He brought himself up, running a hand through his raven hair. 

"So," he said, "How're you feeling?" 

John pinched the bridge of his nose, forcing himself to sit up. "In dire need of a hangover cure. Got a spell for that?" 

The man smiled-- he smiled?! --and got up to grab a glass of water. He returned with the glass and a pack of medication, setting it down on the bedside table. _Couldn't you just levitate them_ , John wanted to snark, but decided against it. He was already kind enough to bring him somewhere decent to rest. Didn't need to sour the moment. 

He walked back to his chair, a smile still lingering on his lips. At this point, John understood it wasn't an "I'm Glad You Didn't Die From Alcohol Poisoning" smile, but an "I Told You So, Idiot" one. Perfect. _Exactly_ what he needed during a hangover. His own bloody arrogance being mirrored right in front of him. 

"Next time, cool it on the drinks," he stated, resting his elbow on the armrest. "Waste all your money on ice cream or something instead." 

"Yes, cause that's beyond healthier," the dryness of his voice was nearly unbelievable. He went to grab one of the tablets, trying to look as not-hungover as possible. 

"At least you won't die in the middle of the night." 

"That's not really the goal here," John shot back, popping the tablet and drinking the water. The coldness was like heaven to his scratchy throat. "The goal is to forget." 

"Yeah?" the man crossed his arms. "Well, I should know." 

He stopped drinking. He tensed a bit, setting the glass back down. Huh. He wanted to ask why he was at a bar if he already had some...unpleasant experiences with alcohol, but he supposed it wasn't the best time for questions. 

As the silence lingered in the air, an abrupt "harumph" from the man preceded him getting up from the chair. He raised out an arm, and John watched as his crimson red cloak descended from behind the chair to his shoulders once more. 

"I better get going now," he walked over to the window and opened it. "I'll remember this night...fondly." 

John watched him for a few more wordless seconds, before lying back down to sleep off the rest of his migraine. He wasn't able to properly rest, however, because right as the man stepped out, he had one last thing to say. 

"The name's Stephen Strange. In case you're ever back in New York and need a doctor." 

John lifted his head to look at him one last time, the sunlight beaming from the window placing him in a dashing, almost _handsome_ light. Though, that still could've been the hangover talking. 

"Maybe I'll see you around," he mumbled, burying his head back into the pillow. He didn't mean it, of course. He never did. But it was nice to give him some sort of closure. 

When he opened his eyes again, Stephen was gone, a faint bit of red waving through the glass in his place before disappearing as well. Well, that hadn't been the worst stranger encounter he had, but it wasn't the greatest either. Hopefully this would just end up being another faint memory disregarded as quickly as it happened, as per usual. 

And yet, right as he went to sleep, he couldn't help but find himself continuously thinking of the name "Stephen Strange" in his rest. 

**Author's Note:**

> Kudos & comments are always appreciated!


End file.
